


Shutter Speed

by simplyprologue



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BET THATS A TAG YOU NEVER THOUGHT I'D USE, F/M, Fluff, Nude Photos, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, aka the title is a pun, post season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacKenzie snoops around on Will's computer, and finds some pictures she assumed he'd have deleted half a decade ago. The results are... interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shutter Speed

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** For tumblr users **hairofgoldeyesofblue** and **ehc6j** , who asked me to answer my own porny 2 AM prompt. And thanks as always to Meg, for being my White Team _and_ my Red Team. Also my apologies for the terrible pun in the title. I wanted to change it to _Candids_ , but Meg and her puns...

She’s on his laptop because she didn't intend on staying the night, or even coming over, but she’d been caught out on a run through the park when it started sleeting, and sprinted to his place by virtue of it being the closest. She’s been through his shower since, spent the night in his bed, and now he’s watching something with sports on television so she’s checking her email before going out into the living room to distract him.

And by "checking her email” she means “snooping around in his hard drive,” but Will’s explicitly told her what’s his is also hers, so by the rule of community property she’s not being nosy, or anything.

(Except that she is.)

It’s just so _easy_ , since Will hasn’t changed any of his passwords in six years.

(Seriously, man?)

Which is how she finds herself knee deep in his pictures library, flipping through pictures of his nieces and nephews (Christ, Olivia is almost in college, and when she met Jacob he was just a baby) before exiting back out to documents, and clicking on the folder named “personal.” And then a sub-folder named “private,” which immediately perks her interest, so she clicks on it, and enters the same password that MacKenzie’s pretty certain he’s been using since 1998.

Its pictures.

Specifically, pictures of her.

More specifically, pictures of her _naked_. From 2007, if she remembers correctly, because she _posed_ for them. And probably some from as far back as 2006, since it wasn’t exactly a one-time thing. There are a couple dozen, taken in his old apartment, her spread out on his old sheets, on his old bed. A few in the bathroom, after a shower, or in the kitchen the morning after (or a midnight snack, probably, satiated in some ways but new appetites worked up), and a fair few, if she recalls correctly, were taken with her on top of him or beneath him in the middle of it.

God, she looks young.

(She _was_ young. Barely thirty-two.)

Not quite closing the lid of the laptop, she pads out to the couch in the living room where Will’s sitting, intently watching a basketball game.

“Private, huh?” she asks, plopping down to sit beside him.

“What?” He tears his eyes away from the TV to look at the computer in her lap. “I—oh.” Blushing to the roots of his hair, he tries to explain himself. “I—those are—”

She laughs, pulling one—her on her back in bed, lace underwear pulled down her thighs, bra cups askew, face flushed—up to full screen. “I know what they are, Billy. You didn’t delete them?”

“Do you want me to?” he stutters while she flickers through the pictures in the folder. (Damn, she used to be skinny.) She wonders if there’s a way she could see how often they’ve been accessed without traumatizing Neal in the process...

She laughs, moving onto a set of four or five of her soaping up in the shower. “No…”

“Oh.” He starts to pay more attention to the pictures than to her, swallowing hard when she pauses over a shot of on top of him, one hand out of frame braced on his chest, other hand in her hair, bottom lip wedged between her teeth.

“I’m touched,” she continues conversationally. “I think. I mean, clearly these made it between two different laptops, at least. And they have their own password protected folder. Even though said password is from the 90s. Seriously, that’s all my naked form is worth to you? Not even a teeny bit of encryption?”  

Will sputters, trying to take the computer out of her hands. “No—I would never, I—I mean, I did, obviously, but I—I didn’t look at them _a lot_ , I mean—okay with increasing frequency, I’ll admit—but I didn’t keep them because of—I kept them because—”

“You love me?” she finishes, widening her eyes and peering up at him, biting her lip around a smile.

“Ah, yes.” He smiles sheepishly, letting her bat his hands away from the screen. “That would be it.”

She hums, turning her attention back to the pictures, years of memories playing through her mind; late nights and breathless mornings, soft skin and rippling arousal and comfortable intimacy, laughs that turned into moans and fingers curled into waists and shoulders. New memories have—not overwritten, but rather reached and surpassed, in the meantime. But still, she has kind feelings for the days before they made it big, in his small apartment on the river with wide windows and a lot of sun.

Trying to remember if it was his camera they used, or hers, she tilts her head, laughing quietly. “Do you have a favorite one?”

“What?” he asks, distracted, knocking her hand away from the keyboard to keep her from advancing from a picture of her sprawled on white sheets, arms folded under her head, her breasts marked with lovebites, smiling sleepily up at him. One of the sights he missed most of all, to be honest.

“You heard me,” she teases him, turning her head to nip along his jaw. “Long cold nights, empty bed, nothing but your hand—”

“Thanks,” he says with a snort.

(...She’s not entirely wrong, except that the empty bed was a deliberate choice, after Nina. After he’d learned his lesson. And then spent the next eight months pining after MacKenzie instead, too bullheaded to do anything about it except stare at reminders of how happy they could be together.

He remembers her, tipsy and giggly, pushing the camera into his hands and telling him a picture lasts longer, and that she’d be in London for the next three weeks visiting her parents, so he’d better start taking them.)

Mac looks expectantly at him. “So do you?”

“It… depends,” he cages, rapidly hitting the right arrow button, a faint tinge of red returning to his cheeks. She raises an eyebrow at him, clearly awaiting an answer. “I—I mean, some days you want different things, and—”

“It was the difference between wanting to fuck me senseless and wanting to—”

Will laughs, trying to avoid her mouth when she trails a chain of kisses up his neck. “Some days I was a little… needier than that, yes.”

Shifting to the laptop to the side, she edges herself into his lap, laying her arms over his shoulders. “Days where you wanted to take me home, peel my clothes off, spread me out on your covers and make sweet, slow love to me until I—”

“Yes, those would be the other kind of days,” he deadpans (or attempts to, it’s hard to be deadpan with a lapful of MacKenzie, which she is very well aware of), bunching the hem of her tee shirt in his hands until her lower back is bared. And he’d been tempted to, so many times. To find her in her office well after broadcast, pour them both a drink, bring her back here. But with his head as fucked as it was… he couldn’t do that to her. To treat her like his lover and then withhold what she actually needed from him.

He probably should have realized then that he’d already forgiven her.

“So?” she asks, pinning her knees to sides of his thighs.

Will rolls his eyes, wrapping an arm around her waist before reaching for the laptop, sliding it closer to his side. “This one,” he grumbles, choosing from one of their more… adventurous exploits. “If you need to know.”

Giggling quietly, she sits back in his lap and rests her hands on his chest, squealing when he pulls her closer.

“What?” he asks, laughing, and then scrapes his teeth down the line of her throat. “Men are predictable, aren’t we?”

“Terribly.” She angles her head and bites his earlobe in retaliation. “But you in particular like to watch.”

“I like to watch _you_ ,” he clarifies, voice dropping. Nosing along her cheekbone, he lets his hands sweep under her shirt and around front, sliding up to cup her breasts over her bra.

“You like me on top of you,” she says with a breathy giggle, canting her hips down into his, eyes flitting to the picture on the now dimmed screen. “You like to… watch me get myself off on you.” This isn’t exactly brand new information to her, but it elicits a loud groan from him, and she evades a kiss, laughing louder and smiling in the way that makes her eyes crinkle. Trailing her fingertips along the tops of his shoulders, she tilts her head, rolling her hips. “Although if I remember correctly, in this picture you were being an absolute right tease.”

“I wanted the picture,” he murmurs, taking one of her hands off his shoulder and putting the pads of her fingers to his lips.

She laughs. “You could have told me that you wanted a picture of my orgasm face.”

God, that had been a night. She can’t remember if it was any occasion at all. Staring at the picture, she sees bright eyes and a red face, every muscle elongated as she contorts with pleasure. Nose scrunched, mouth open, completely lost to sensation; she was exactly how he wanted her, because he’d pushed and stopped and pushed and stopped and pushed until she lost her voice, before he finally let her come.

“It’s better if it’s candid,” he argues, trying to coax her mouth to meet his. But she prefers to be difficult, letting her lips land anywhere but there.

He pulls her tee shirt (well, his) up over her head, leaving her to discard it behind her somewhere on the floor, and then trails open-mouthed kisses up her sternum, hands squeezing and fondling her breasts.

“Really?” she asks with a sardonic little grin, before finally letting him slant his mouth against hers, letting herself get lost for a minute.

(It _is_ better, though, he thinks. Unguarded and raw, vulnerable. The way they generally prefer each other, off the prompter and without a rundown. When her muscles begin to shake, lungs pushing out shuddering breaths through parted lips, fingers clenching in his hair.)

Locking their hips together, she shifts on top of him, a better fit. His tongue slides along hers, hands coming down to rest on her waist, before smoothing down to her hips, her ass. Tracing upwards to the small of her back, his next pass pushes his fingers under the waist of her yoga pants (she’s been leaving more and more things at his place recently, toiletries and work clothes and pajamas.) He wants her closer, encourages her to rock her hips into his. She does, and their breathing grows harsher.

“Want to test that hypothesis?” she jokes, when they break for air.  

“Hmm?” he hums, love-addled and a little oxygen deprived (and more than a little aroused), not quite able to connect the conversational thread.

Mac laughs, and then nibbles on his lower lip. “If it’s better candid?”

Lifting an eyebrow at her—vaguely astonished, hesitantly eager—he plays with the lace band of her panties.

“Seriously?”

Rolling her eyes, she braces her hands on his chest and pushes herself out of his lap. “Get your BlackBerry, Will.”

Fumbling for his cell phone, he scrambles to follow her up off the couch, switching the phone onto camera mode and trailing her into the bedroom. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

Walking backwards through the living room, she bends her arms behind her to undo to the clasp of her bra. “Haven’t you gotten bored with the same thirty-whatever pictures over the past six years?”

Will frowns at that. “I could never get _bored_ of you.”

She stops, and lets her bra drop to the floor.

“Come here,” she says, crooking a finger at him. He’s an idiot, she thinks, fondly. But he’s her idiot.

He almost drops his phone, and then gets distracted by her bared breasts. Which, while not a wholly novel sight a few months into this new relationship, are still new enough to monopolize most of his attention. “What?”

“I want to take your clothes off,” she says with a snort.

He comes to her pretty quickly after that—she laughs, while pushing his button down off his shoulders and off his arms before pulling his tee shirt up and over his head, and then reaching down between them and rubbing her palm over his hardening length through his sweats. Rubbing, fondling, gently _squeezing_...

Tossing his phone on top of the duvet, he wraps his arms around her. He cards his fingers into her hair and kisses her again, hands sliding up her back, and walks her back to the bed. Lips connected, blindly they manage to get themselves onto the mattress.

“Take your pants off,” she mutters against his lips, fingers unknotting the drawstring of his sweats.

Rolling them so she pinned beneath him, he bends his head to kiss her neck, before licking a stripe from her shoulder to her ear. “You first.”

Slowly, he rolls down the elastic waist of her pants, moving down her body, lips finding all of his favorite places. Takes one nipple into his mouth, and then the other. Teasing them with his teeth, leaving them reddened and stiff and swollen—and her squirming, and whining softly—by the time he moves further south.

With his help, she kicks her pants off from her ankles and onto the floor. Next goes her underwear, and she giggles when he pushes her thighs apart to make room for his shoulders.

“I said, _you first_.” His fingers part her, gauge her. Her hips chase his movements, and he slides his index and middle fingers from her opening to her clit, ducking his head to kiss and lick at the inside of her thighs.

Combing one hand through his hair, Mac reaches behind her to arrange the pillows on his bed to lie on, realizing that he’ll probably be there for a while. Not that she’s complaining, or anything. Still, she quirks a sarcastic kind of smile. “How charitable.”

“Nah.” He scrapes his teeth along the delicate skin on her inner thigh, continuing to work circles over her. Her back arches a bit before coming to rest again on the mass of pillows she’s collected to keep herself from being flat on her back.

She likes to watch too, and he knows it, keeps eye contact with her when he trails his fingers down her folds to work one finger in to the knuckle.

“I like you like this.”

“ _Predictable_ ,” she laughs, mostly at herself, squirming when he works in another finger and curls them both up into her just enough to inspire frustration more than anything else.

He bends to her, and rolls his tongue over the bundle of nerves at her apex, smirking when her hips jerk into his mouth. “ _Terribly_ ,” he says, mockingly, before repeating the motion.

And then sets to the task. After all, getting MacKenzie to raise her voice has always been one of his favorite past times.

One he’s fairly good at, too, relishing in his (rather evident) ability to reduce her to plaintive cries and moans that are, by turns, frustrated and thankful. When his mouth does something particularly impressive, she cries out his name, shifting a leg over his shoulder, trying to bring him closer.

Naturally, he backs off.

She whines, aggrieved, threading her fingers through his hair again. He laughs quietly—she thumps her heel against his back in response—before sucking her clit into his mouth, making her emit a distinctly undignified squeak, much to his amusement.

That earns him another heel to the shoulder. “You are  _such_ a jackass.”  

He hums an affirmative against her skin, making her squirm. And then makes her gasp, pressing his fingers up inside her, curving them towards where he knows her g-spot should be.

(He’s correct, because fuck if knowing Mac inside and out— _heh_ —isn’t his job.

Or something.)

She considers hitting him again (or at least pulling his hair) when she feels his mouth curve into a smile, but _goddamn_ if it doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t stop, and her fingers tighten in his hair. Her face flushes, and then she can feel color spreading across her chest, sweat breaking out across her forehead.

Pulling her clit between his lips once more, he flicks his tongue over her again, and then again, until her hips begin to torque off the bed. By instinct, she bears down against him, trying to refrain from fisting her hands into his hair (and failing, mostly, not that he particularly cares.) Pressure builds between her thighs, flaring up into a knifing kind of pleasure. Breathing raggedly, she lifts herself onto her elbows when his free arm comes under her leg to wrap around her hip, pinning her down.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Hazy blue eyes meet hers across the plane of her body. “ _Will._ ”

His grin, in response to that, is smug, although still appreciative. Slowly, he pumps his fingers into her one last time, making her shudder, before wrapping that arm around her hips as well. Pinned, she almost slumps back down onto the pillows. Her whimpers reach his ears, and he laps his tongue up the length of her folds, briefly circling her entrance before lazily making his way back to her throbbing clit.

She moans his name again, trying to encourage him to _hurry the fuck up._

Which only makes him move slower, and make a chiding kind of sound into her sensitized skin that only serves to send arousal rippling through her body, all the way down to her toes and the arches of her feet.

Falling back, she notices his BlackBerry next to her head.

When he notices her taking a picture, he rolls his eyes and reaches up to try to knock it out of her hand. Snorting, she moves it out of his reach. “You know, it is generally _your_ job to be on camera.”

(It’s also not like she didn’t take pictures of him the first time they were in a relationship. Although generally they _were_ of him sprawled out and dead to the world in the aftermath, not during the act.

She got rid of that phone years ago, though.)

Will realizes that MacKenzie’s trying to get him to give her what she wants, and leers up at her one last time before moving his hands to cradle the inside of her knees, pushing her legs wide and pinning them.

“So long as you don’t accidentally send them to a hundred and fifty _thousand_ people,” he quips, catching his breath, imagining _that_ splashed across the inside cover of the weeklies.

She rolls her hips towards his mouth, pouting when he doesn’t oblige her, and then snarks, “I don’t know, it’d increase your popularity among women eighteen to thirty-nine.”

The look he gives her could potentially be described as one of fond exasperation. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And _you_ are not finished.”

“You don’t think I know that?” he responds, mildly affronted. She opens her mouth to reply, but whatever she intends to say is interrupted by his tongue suddenly revisiting her sex, and her resulting moan of gratitude.

She doesn’t last long after that, coming with his name on her lips, her back arching off the mattress, and her hands knotted in his hair.

“You know, for all you complain about the cowlick, you seem pretty intent on making it worse,” he grouses (less than even halfheartedly), climbing up the mattress to lay next to her after finding something to wipe his face with.

(The sheet. He needs to do laundry anyway.)

Mac rolls her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “Oh, shut it, it makes you feel like a man.”

He slides his fingers through her wet folds, gently circling her most sensitive spots, kissing her cheek when an aftershock surges through her and her thighs clamp down on his hand. “Yeah.”

He won't even pretend that the smirk on his face isn't insufferably smug. 

“Take your pants off,” she orders on a particularly loud exhale. His fingers are tenderly working her back into a state of arousal, and she wants him inside of her.

“Copy," he replies eagerly, and she rolls her eyes. 

(Fondly, of course.) 

Stripping himself as quickly (and carefully, since going down on Mac does things to him) as possible and throwing his pants in the general direction of his hamper, he flops onto his side facing her. Sighing happily, she rolls onto side and wraps a leg over his, hands reaching between them to wrap around his erection. Moaning (partially in relief) he buries his face in her neck and she kisses his ear. And then smiles wickedly, and traces the shell of it with her tongue before biting his earlobe. 

" _Mac_..." 

Groaning in a slightly exaggerated fashion, he winds his arms around her waist and turns so that she’s on top of him. Mac lifts herself enough onto one arm that she can stretch up and run her tongue along his bottom lip, laughing lightly when his hands move from her waist to sink into her hair and hold her mouth to his. Before he can get too comfortable, she breaks the kiss, nipping her way down his throat, sucking on the skin over his jugular and moving down his chest.

Will lifts her head as she moves down his body, taking on the universally blissful look of a man who knows that he’s about to be on the receiving end of oral sex. Giggling, she arranges herself between his legs, one hand moving up and down his shaft.

“What?”

She shakes her head, leaning up to press a kiss to the head of his rigid erection, flicking her tongue over the slit. “Nothing,” she murmurs. And then teasingly, after licking him once from base to tip, and he thinks that MacKenzie is most alluring when she's not particularly trying to be.

“You might want to turn your camera on, honey.”

“Uh…” He gropes around for his phone, which she dropped somewhere near the headboard. “Are you sure you want me to—this, I mean?” Although, he thinks, maybe she's gotten more adventurous in the past few years. She did spend time with marines, after all. 

She snickers, letting her mouth roam up and down his cock, delicately grazing her front teeth over the heavy vein on the underside of his erection. “We might even work our way up to _video_ one day.”

For the cold nights that she spends in her own apartment, although they are getting fewer and far between. Although they should probably both be a little neurotic about that sort of thing getting out, and considering her phone's already been hacked, albeit by Reese... 

“I kind of prefer it live,” he manages to get out, hands fanning out over her shoulders.

Snorting, she takes him into her mouth, fitting her lips around his girth, hollowing her cheeks, and pulling all the way back to his head. His answer is a deep groan, so she does it again, hands following her mouth’s movements.

“ _MacKenzie…”_

She increases the pace of her movements gradually, sucking harder and harder until his hips flex up to meet her, tremors seizing his thighs and abdomen. Easing off when she can tell he’s nearing the edge, she pulls her head back but keeps her fingers around him, thumb pressing into the spot under the reddened head of his length.

Shifting onto her knees, she watches him try to regain the power of speech. Her very articulate and eloquent Will McAvoy. 

“You doing all right there?”

He peers out at her from under a forearm. “Gaining the complete cooperation of your anchor requires nothing more than a firm grasp of his dick.”

“You act like I didn’t already know that,” she teases, moving her hand again, tormenting him. And then snakes a hand between her own thighs, rubbing her fingers over the sensitive nerves there, testing her wetness and finds herself aching. “Is that why you and Don didn’t work out?”

“Don’t… give me that image. While we’re in bed together. Especially.” He raises his head off the pillow enough to catch the sight of her touching herself. “Come here, please,” he requests, voice edging along the side of begging. And then seems to reconsider when she presses two fingers up into herself. "Or continue what you're doing, that's fine too. I can handle myself." 

“Hmm…” She licks her lips, and then kneels when he finally manages to turn his BlackBerry’s camera mode on, cupping a breast and pressing her arousal-slicked fingers against her clit. “No, I’m thinking about this now. Your longest EP lasted for sixteen weeks, while I was gone. I wonder…”

“Let’s cut to the chase and—yes, I fired them because they weren’t you, no one will ever know me as well as you do or be as beautiful or, um, some other adjective describing your general state of perfection and—now would you please come here?” Will sits up, reaching for her, smiling breathlessly when she climbs on top of him, braces her hands over his shoulders and crinkles her nose at him. “Thank you,” he murmurs against her lips when she bends down to bring their mouths together.

He smooths his hands down her back to her hips, reveling in her warm skin, pulling her down to him. Like on the couch, she starts rocking her hips against him, and he does his best to match the motion of her hips at the feeling of her hot, slick flesh moving against his erection. That, coupled with the feeling of him sucking her tongue into her mouth, has her sitting up a few minutes later, shakily collecting her hair off the nape of her neck and tying it back with an elastic from around her wrist. Just sitting, she can feel the heat of them pulsing between her thighs. 

With her hands busy, he reaches up and fills his own with her breasts, rolling her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, grinning appreciatively when MacKenzie lets her head loll back, moaning. Pretty, pretty MacKenzie—who puts her hair up when she's about to get down to business. If nothing else, he first fell in love with her focus. 

They both moan when she reaches down to stroke him through her wetness before sinking down until they’re groin to groin. Mac lets her head fall to the side, eyes half-closed, savoring the feeling of being stretched, full. When the flash of the camera goes off, she grins down at him, and draws her lower lip between her teeth.

 _Neither_ of them last very long.

Afterwards, she pillows her head on his bicep and plucks his phone from where it rests on his heaving stomach.

“I should probably be concerned that you know my password for everything,” he mutters, forearm flung across his arms, when she enters the lock code.

“Don’t I own you?” she asks absently, trying to find the symbol for his photo gallery.

He makes a noise that is distinctly a yes, languidly rolling onto his side and moving his arm so it rests under her breasts, tracing the underside of one with the pads of his fingers. “How’d we do?”

“ _I’ve_ definitely aged,” she snorts. “More lines, fewer ribs showing. And my wild assortment of scars. No longer porn star material, I’m afraid.”

Will frowns, nuzzling her temple. “Hey, you’re my hardcore journalist,” he protests, and then kisses her ear. “It’s better than the caked-on makeup, Barbie doll look. Besides, they fake all of their orgasms.”

Not that he knows from extensive viewing, or whatever. He did keep the pictures for six years for a reason. Not extensive viewing at all. 

“And I don’t?” she asks nonchalantly, needling him while she flips through the pictures, deleting the blurry ones, a smile cracking over her face when he sighs.

“The one time you did, I made you pay for it, didn’t I?”

“You were _exhausted_ ,” she asserts. More than that, he was decompressing after coming off of twenty-four hours of off-and-on Katrina coverage and he wanted her close, and they’d only been together for a few months and she thought he wouldn’t be able to tell, to be honest. “I just wanted you to get some sleep—”

“Still unacceptable,” he says, and then stills her hand from flipping past one of her fingers laced with his while he rode his thumb over her clit. “That one’s nice.”

She lifts an eyebrow, half turning so she can see him in her periphery. “Really?”

“Yeah, that’s when I know I’m doing well.”

Cocking her head a bit, she looks at her face in the picture. Her cheeks are red, chin dipped, eyes closed but not squeezed shut, lips barely parted. “How?”

“When you start breathing through your mouth,” he comments softly, before pressing another kiss to her skin. “And then when your nose wrinkles I know I’ve got you.”

She hums. “You make a noise. Deeper in your chest. Before that, it’s usually from your throat. Sometimes from your head, when we’re quick about it.”

“I do?” He settles more firmly against her, pressing his face into her neck, and Mac is sure that his eyes are slipping closed.

(Predictable. 

Terribly. But they both kind of are, at this point, and it's kind of exciting, in it's own way.) 

“I like it,” she murmurs, blindly reaching up to brush his hair back off his forehead. Noticing that he’s dropping off, she kisses his forehead. “Go to sleep, honey.”

She waits until he’s snoring softly against her shoulder, and then turns the camera back on. Making sure the flash is off, she angles it towards their faces. She likes him like this, vulnerable and unguarded. He doesn’t do that around many people, always searching for the upper hand, always wanting to be the last man standing. 

(Not that she doesn’t like the pictures of him going down on her, or anything. In fact, she scrolls back to them and emails them to herself.

Only herself.

She triple-checks.)

Reaching for the remote, she turns the TV on to ACN weekend, and then lowers the volume almost all the way. It’s only late-afternoon; she’ll wake him in a bit to order dinner, and then decide if she wants to head back to her place or stay the night again. (She thinks she has a full set of work clothes here, so she might indulge her laziness.) She watches a segment covering the Israeli air strikes in Syria before turning her attention back to the pictures.

He was right, she thinks, looking at the picture she just took of them.

It’s better candid.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
